


Body Speak

by MithrilWren



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Beau's Shitty Childhood, Developing Relationship, F/F, Hair Braiding, Intimacy, Nonverbal Communication, hair cutting, mentions of past emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MithrilWren/pseuds/MithrilWren
Summary: After two weeks, the endless silence of the Kryn tunnels starts to take its toll on the Mighty Nein. Beau handles the tension... poorly. Yasha tries to help.Or, Beau stress-fucks-up her hair and Yasha fixes it with her expert shaving skills.





	Body Speak

**Author's Note:**

> Caleb seems to be the primary ticketholder for this fandom's angstmobile. Time to take Beau for a spin.
> 
> I started writing something like this basic premise before episode 48 aired and then got too stressed out waiting for subsequent episodes to air to finish the piece. In the end, I'm actually really glad I waited. The tunnels are such an intriguing new setting for the M9 to explore, and in the meantime, they ended up making a very appropriate setting for this fic.

The barest of slips is all it takes.

The pain never really comes, but the handle of the knife is slick and wet where it was once rough and ash hewn, and Beau curses softly as it pinwheels from her fingers and clatters to the ground at her feet.

She knows her body better than this. It’s easy to blame the slip on the lack of a mirror, or her human eyes – too mundane to help in all this darkness even if she had a mirror – but that’s not an excuse. Beau senses things before they come, can cut a path through blind space and catch the edge of whatever lurks beyond, can fashion handholds with nothing but her fingertips, can be lighter than air and heavier than stone. And apparently tonight she can’t do a half-penny shave as well as any roadside hack with a rusty razor.

It’s frustrating as shit.

Beau feels gingerly at the nape of her neck. She he doesn’t need to taste the fingers to know what they come away wet with but she does anyway. Tastes the iron, lets her thumb drift downward, marks the bottom of her lip with a line of warrior’s paint and for a moment imagines herself _strong._ A warrior on the battlefield, greatsword in hand, bloodlust in her eyes, and it’s different than all the times her lip’s been bloodied before. Her _choice_ – not her inattention, not her weakness. But the vision fades, and she’s left staring at nothing, hearing nothing.

She swipes the blood from her lip with her tongue before wandering back to their makeshift camp in search of something to press against the cut.

Caleb is on first watch tonight. Beau brushes her hand lightly against his shoulder as she steps into the bubble. A few seconds later his hand finds hers and gives it a couple gentle taps before letting her pass. By all rights he should have told her to stay put in the center of the huddle, safe behind the dim glow of the arcane barrier, but he didn’t say a word as she left. Just let her go right past. She’d been hoping for a snide comment or admonishment. Nothing.

Beau nearly trods on Nott’s hand as she steps into the scant inches between her and Caleb, dances around Caduceus’s softly rumbling form only to stumble over Fjord’s ankle before finally managing to land ungracefully by her bag, nestled in what little space remains between the confines of the bubble and the half-orc’s back.

From within the pack, hidden beneath a tangled mess of hardtack and leather bands and and pouches of ball bearings, she pulls out a wad of spare bandages and presses the whole pile to her shorn scalp. The fabric bites at the wound with a thousand salty teeth, and Beau hisses as the cut begins to burn. Though their clothes are long-dried and the Menagerie Coast is nothing more than a glittering memory, the ocean hasn’t let go of them yet.

She could have waited to deal with her hair till they cleared the tunnels. Once they’re out (if they get out) Jester would have held her little silver mirror and Beau would have had the moonlight to play with and a friend to steady her reflection. Instead, she’s going to be stuck with a half-cropped mess on the back of her head that the whole group can ogle, courtesy of Caleb’s dancing lights and her point guard position. Oh, to be a wizard and hide in the shadowy recesses. In the vanguard there’s no escape from all those eyes on her back, watching...

It doesn’t matter. It’s just a haircut.  Who fucking cares.

Beau presses the bandages in harder. Savours the briny sting.

The next day passes, and nobody says a word about the hair. Nobody says a word about anything. Beau manages to forget the lights at her back, but her hands don’t. They wander up to tug at the twist of hair against her neck, worrying the vague wisp of a curl that tickles her skin and sends spiders crawling between her shoulderblades.

After a few hours their progress disturbs a group of gnolls in an adjacent passageway and Beau finally has a better use for her fingers: curled into tight fists, primed for breaking beaks and pressing nerves and throwing small bodies into the wall until there’s no threat left alive. But when the group pauses to breathe in the wake of the skirmish, her hands are back in her hair, uselessly trying to smooth too-short fuzz up into her topknot. It doesn’t work. She tries anyway.

Another turn in the passageway. Jester pokes at Nott’s shoulder, tries to show her something from her sketchbook. Nott glances briefly but doesn’t comment, doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t laugh or screech or do anything but stare straight off ahead. She puts one foot in front of the other. Beau does the same. Sometimes it’s good to be in the front. From here, she doesn’t have to watch Jester fail.

It’s been two weeks since they’ve seen the sun. With each step closer to Yeza, Nott’s words got farther between. On the eighth day, she stopped talking altogether. Most of the others followed suit.

The quiet hangs heavier each time they stop to rest. Beau sits with her legs spread and studies the ground, keeps her hands pressed below her thighs. She could ask Jester, _someone,_ for help with her hair, but it feels offensive to break the silence for something so trivial.  

The fifteenth day of travel finds them camping near another subterranean river. The pulse of running water masks the drip of stalactites and the distant burrowing of unknown creatures and Nott still hasn’t spoken a word despite Jester’s soft efforts and Caleb’s worried glances and Beau yanks so hard on what remains of her undercut that tears burn behind her eyes and suddenly there are different fingers on the back of her neck. Beau freezes in place.

“Walk with me.”

The low cadence of Yasha’s voice sinks into Beau’s chest. She could reach behind her if she wanted to, grasp Yasha’s hand and keep it pressed against her skin and let that sink in deeper too, but she hesitates a second too long and the touch is gone and she presses her palms harder into the dirt and forces herself to stand.

Yasha’s face betrays nothing, like always, but the request is far from casual. Fjord looks as though he’s gearing up to protest as they leave the circle of light and Beau knows why, knows the ghost of slavers and icy shards hang in his periphery as often as in hers, but Jester puts a hand on his shoulder and he bites back whatever he was going to say, and Beau wishes he would say it. Yell at them for being reckless. _Anything_.

Yasha just keeps walking, torch in hand, never slowing her step. There’s nothing for Beau to do but follow.   

She aches to make a joke, some asinine comment or stupid pass to put Yasha off her guard because she doesn’t know where they’re going and she doesn’t know why Yasha asked her to go and there’s a feeling in the pit of her stomach that says she’s about to get her ears boxed for some unknown offence.

But the unformed words die on her lips, and Yasha just keeps walking, and doesn’t explain.

More silence. Beau could scream.

They’ve barely been walking five minutes along the dropoff towards the river before Yasha stops her with one hand, then passes Beau the torch and crouches to the ground. An instant later, she’s gone, swallowed by the darkness and Beau’s heart leaps into her throat before she spots a mismatched pair of eyes peering up at her from below the ridge. “Jump down,” Yasha says. “It’s not very high.”

Beau leaps without looking because if Yasha can do it, so can she. Her foot slips on the wet ground but she catches herself without too much fuss. The small radius of torchlight illuminates the riverbank and a rough alcove in the rock where Yasha waits, holding out her hand. Beau passes her the torch. She shoves a few stones into a makeshift bracket with her foot and places it against the wall, then turns back to Beau and puts her hand out again.

Beau doesn’t know what to give her. After a moment, the fist closes and the hand withdraws.  

Yasha shrugs and pulls her greatsword from its bindings. Its blade is broader than Beau’s thigh, and the line of runes flicker orange and grey in the pale light. It’s almost as fearsome as the woman who wields it. “It’s easier if you sit.”

Yasha’s voice is muffled by the sound of the river, but Beau manages to catch the end of the directive and finally moves forward, stepping into the alcove.

She turns and kneels, facing away from Yasha’s feet, feeling all too much like a rooster offering itself up on the butcher’s slab. _Never turn your back on your opponent. Try again._ Her hand falls a foot from where the greatsword’s point scrapes softly against the stone.

There’s nothing beyond the circle of torchlight. Just darkness, and darkness, and somewhere past her feet the rush of water she can’t see. And then there’s Yasha behind her. Watching. Seeing every part of Beau – the torn tunic, the bloodstained skin, the mangled mess of her haphazard topknot, the tension in her shoulders and the way she can’t keep her hands still for five damn minutes.

“What are we doing?”

She doesn’t really care if Yasha hears the mumble or not. Doesn’t matter. She’s ready for anything that means not being back in the camp.

She feels the faint shuffle of booted feet through the ground, and then the humming energy of a body crouched behind hers. “Just… fixing things,” comes the slow reply, an inch from Beau’s ear. The edge of a cold blade presses to Beau’s neck. She swallows and squeezes her eyes closed.

A fraction of a second. That’s all it would take to pitch forward out of the sword’s reach. _Too slow, Beauregard. Try again._ Yasha wouldn’t hurt her, Beau’s sure of it, but people don’t get this close under non-violent circumstances, and her body knows what to do even if she doesn’t, she doesn’t know-

A wide hand clamps down on her shoulder before she can jerk forward and cut herself against the blade. “It’s ok,” Yasha says, “it’s fine,” and she doesn’t sound sure at all, and a small, nervous bubble of laughter bursts up from Beau’s throat. At least she’s not the only one walking the edge here. “Just… let me?”

“Yeah,” says Beau. “Sure. Go for it.” Her voice doesn’t crack. That would be too embarrassing.

The first draw of the blade is feather-light, barely a whisper against the skin above her ear. Beau is sure that nothing happened at all until she feels the tickle of something prickly against her collar bone. With the blade still so close to her throat, she doesn’t dare look down.

Calloused fingers brush against the edge of the shaved line, trailing their way into the longer strands at Beau’s crown. They linger a moment, hesitating, before sweeping the longer hair to one side, leaving the soft wisps along the side exposed.

_From a velvet couch in the Lavish Chateau, she watches Marion Lavorre hold her daughter close, her eyes fixed on the hand that slowly smooths Jester’s blue locks, over and over and over. As Jester nuzzles into the touch, the set of Beau’s jaw hardens, just enough to keep the lump in her throat at bay._

_She wonders if her mother stays awake at night now, smoothing down soft baby curls and forgetting the eyes of the first child she held to her breast._

Yasha’s touch isn’t motherly, but it’s gentler than any hands that have touched Beau’s hair before. To her mortification, she feels the prickle of tears behind her eyes and she squeezes them shut a little tighter, grinds her palm into the jagged rocks by her knee, breathes through her nose. The blade presses again, closer this time, and more spikes float down onto Beau’s chest. She’ll be as hairy as Caduceus by the time all this is done.

A wilder part of her wants to tell Yasha to cut it all off. Just pull her head back and drag the sword from scalp to nape and be done with it. It would be simpler, wouldn’t it? What’s the point in maintaining vanity in a place like this? She doesn’t care what she looks like. She really doesn’t.

“Forward,” Yasha says, and nudges the base of Beau’s skull with her fingertips. Beau obliges. The next swipe dusts her shoulderblades with more little spikes. Another swipe and the blade comes to rest at the place where Beau gouged herself the first time.

“Nice fuckup, right?” Beau murmurs. “One more scar for the collection.”

The fingers trace the scab that Beau is sure glares angry and red and irritated against her dark skin. “You should have asked for help,” Yasha says finally.

 _I know_ , Beau thinks. “Have you met me?” she says.

The fingers disappear and the blade returns, settling right at the apex of the wound. Beau braces for the sting of the cut re-opening, but it doesn’t come. Instead the edge curves in a slow arc, skirting the fringes of the scab with a surgeon’s precision. Beau didn’t know hands that could wield a greatsword with such brutality could be that delicate. For the first time since she felt the cold steel against her throat, her shoulders begin to untense.

The rest of the hair comes down quick. Too quick, and Beau doesn’t want it to end, even though her knees are aching and her feet are halfway to asleep under her. Yasha places the greatsword on the ground. That’s probably Beau’s signal to move, but she stays still. Concentrates on the sound of the river, and the coolness of the stone, and Yasha’s warm presence at her back. It’s quiet here, but at least there’s a purpose to the silence.

Maybe this was her problem all along. Her teachers always told her meditation was best done alone, but she’s never felt quite so connected to her body as with Yasha’s fingers in her hair.

When Yasha settles from her crouch to sit behind her, she feels it through the ground and the air and the singing of her skin. Her scalp crackles when the hands return to her hair. Everyone gives off some energy, but Yasha’s touch burns like lightening and Beau wants more of it, wants it all around her. She drinks in the touch as Yasha carefully unties the leather band that holds her loose bun in place, and thinks about what it would feel like to have those arms draped around her shoulders. She lets herself drift.

“May I?” Yasha asks, and Beau says yes without wondering what she’s agreeing to. Yasha’s fingers begin carding through her hair, pulling out the knots and bits of debris from the day’s journey, and once the fingers can pull through without catching they start to braid. One piece over the other. Left, then right. There isn’t a lot of length to work with and it’s all over too soon, but when Yasha finishes she unravels the braid and starts again. Then again. Braid, unravel, repeat.  

On the fourth iteration, Beau starts talking.

“My dad was… a real son of a bitch.” The fingers pause, then pull another strand over and keep working. “He used to try a lot of shit to get me to behave. Started out with a whole lot of yelling, and then making sure I didn’t eat for a day or two – luckily once the cook’s assistant found out I was a good lay she snuck me stuff,” and she’s wincing even as she says it because it’s not a lie but she knows she’s making the whole exchange sound colder than it was and she hates that she does this, and Yasha will never meet this girl so it doesn’t matter except that it kind of really does, to her at least.

“Yeah, well, that didn’t work, so he had me locked me in my room for a bit, but I was too good at climbing to stay put.”

With a few quick twists the newest braid coils on top of Beau’s head and for a moment it seem like Yasha is satisfied with the arrangement, but she lets it drop and pulls the strands apart again. Beau lets out a low breath.

“He was smart though, I’ll give him that. Managed to figure out one way to get to me.” She doesn’t have to say this, doesn’t want to admit this, but she can’t shut up now she’s started. “He’d just… stop talking. To me, I mean. I could scream at him and throw stuff and he’d just pretend I wasn’t there. Like I was fucking window dressing. He’d get everyone else to do it too. Servants, courtiers, coachmen… as soon as I walked in the room, nobody would say a word. And I had no idea when it would end. The last time lasted almost three weeks.” She pauses, huffs a bitter laugh. “That shit makes you go crazy, man.” She’s not even sure when she started trembling. But if she bites her lip, she can keep it still.

The fingers pull away, and Yasha leans in closer. Beau feels the wiry brush of twisted hair against her shoulder. “Nobody’s angry with you, Beau.”

“I know,” Beau whispers. “I know. I know.” She doesn’t even bother trying to stop the tears from finally spilling over. “I still hate this.”

The indecision buzzes off of Yasha, and she wants to tell her it’s ok, that she doesn’t expect her to comfort her because this shit isn’t her fault, it’s not anyone’s fault, it’s just Beau’s dumb insecurity and-

“I used to braid her hair, every night.” Yasha’s words slow in the middle, dragged through molasses, but still pushing through. “She didn’t need me to, but I… liked to.” Beau doesn’t know who _she_ is, but she doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t need to ask, not really. “I miss that, more than anything. Just sitting and… being together. I miss that very much.”

 _Whoever she is, I’m sorry I’m not her_. The words burble up in Beau’s throat but she knows they’re not the right ones, and for once, for _once_ , she manages to keep control of her mouth. Instead, she says, “I’m glad you’re here with us, Yasha.”

“I’m glad too.” A pause. “I wouldn’t have wanted to make this journey alone.”

One final time, the fingers card through Beau’s hair, and as Yasha arranges the strands back into a neat bun with the leather band it feels like a return to center. “There.”

Beau reaches up and touches her neck. The skin is mercifully smooth, shaved closer than she can ever manage on her own, and her head is light on her shoulders. She can breathe again.

She turns her head back towards Yasha but she’s already standing and grabbing the torch, and Beau is too late.  

“We should get back to camp,” Yasha is making to leave, and Beau can’t help herself. She grabs Yasha’s forearm arm and squeezes.

“Hey. Thanks. For, like, all of that.” The words are inadequate, but they’re something.

Yasha doesn’t reply, but she squeezes back, and that’s all Beau really needs to hear.

Beau makes a short stop to splash river water over her shoulders and wash away the itchy evidence of the haircut, and so by the time they get back to the group, she’s freezing beneath her vest. Shivering, Beau beelines for the little fire at the center of camp, now barely more than embers. Yasha sinks to the ground and joins Caduceus on watch.

Everything is still quiet, apart from Fjord’s gentle snores and the now-distant rush of water. But before Beau slinks off to her own corner she sits by the waning fire, and feels the earth beneath her, and listens with her body.

Nott’s small form is silent, true. But she curls into Caleb’s side with her knees drawn up, fingers grasping at the hem of his coat, and Caleb has his arm slung around her shoulders, and Jester’s back is pressed up against Nott’s even as her hands curl towards the empty space between her and Fjord, and Fjord’s body is a mirror of Jester’s , and Caduceus watches over them all with a warm, half-lidded smile, and nobody is talking but Beau hears the words _love, love, love_ all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Most everything in Beau's backstory here is from my own imagination, and I'm sure it will be thoroughly jossed at some point, but the whole silent-treatment-as-retribution seems in line with what we know about Beau's upbringing so far. (Plus I know from experience it's very much Not a Good Time and I'm nothing if not willing to project onto fictional characters for the sake of the angst and my own emotional cartharsis. Now, if only someone could find me a muscle-bound angelic gf to help me buzz _my_ hair...)


End file.
